


The Blues

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Captivity, Dark, Humiliation, Hydra Steve Rogers, M/M, Rimming, Secret Empire (Marvel), Torture, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: He can’t see Steve anymore, but he feels his breath on his back. A finger outlines his vertebrae, and Tony counts each one. Twelve down the thoracic. Five down the lumbar, and then Steve's pawing at his sacrum, fingers fluttering until he reaches the center of Tony’s ass. "There you are," he says, spreading Tony's cheeks.Tony sees Steve's shiny boots until he crouches to the ground, and then all that’s left are those stupid green trousers that should be blue.There’s a puff of air on his hole, then a dry finger circles the rim. It presses in, slow.Tony should be used to this violation by now. But he’s not.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72
Collections: STB Bingo: Round One, Secret Empire





	The Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Letting the id run free today. No redemption. Enjoy. Thanks for the beta, Temp. Previously posted on anon.
> 
> My fill for the STB Bingo, “Dehydration.”

Blood drips from Tony’s wrists. 

He’s long stopped twisting his hands. It proved useless to try to get his arms free. The shackles were heavy, made of iron, and the chains that hold his body upright are bolted to the ceiling.

Steve’s smiling, and it isn’t Steve, not the Steve he knows. All of Tony’s thoughts circle around those five letters. The single syllable he doesn’t allow himself to utter anymore.

He still isn’t used to the cold air blowing from the AC. 

Moving his limbs is a difficult feat. He stares at his toes. He thinks they would be cold, but he can’t feel them anymore. 

Steve pulled off each weeks ago. 

There’s still blood on the cell’s floor. There’s no utility in cleaning a pigsty when it’s serving its function.

With what little energy he has left, Tony lifts his head and the muscles on his back overwork themselves and he wishes that Steve would just break his neck so he doesn’t have to go through this every night.

Tonight, Steve is off early and there’s a dark shadow on his face. 

These are the worst evenings. When it’s obvious that the Underground found something worthy, gained leverage, made the correct move in this long game of chess. 

He’s sitting on a plush, winged back chair, legs spread, hands on folded on his lap. There’s a tray with a jug of water and an empty glass beside him.

If Tony’s hands were free, he'd wipe his eyes. 

It's a surprise he can still cry. But here he is, staring back at Steve, willing reason to dawn on him.

“I had a bad day,” Steve says, frowning, and until now, Tony wants the curve of his lips to be inverted into a smile. 

What do you want me to do with that, Tony doesn’t say. You’re gonna hurt me, I know.

“Can you help me?” Steve shifts forward, face grim. “Make it better.”

No, Tony doesn’t say. It’s too much effort to shake his head, to scream his refusal, to beg Steve, no please no, this isn’t you, what happened, let me help you —

Steve stands and undoes the buttons of his uniform. Green isn't his color. It's always been blue. 

It's still Tony's favorite, and it's nights like this, when Steve is quiet, when he's pleading, that Tony could retreat deeper and deeper inside of himself and pretend this is alright. That this is the Steve he's always known.

Steve removes the belt and sets it on the chair. Tony doesn’t hold his breath.

The night is long, and there’s always time for whipping.

The shirt soon follows, and then Steve’s bearing his broad chest, the painting of the Hydra symbol illustrated across his sternum. Its tails curl around Steve’s nipples.

Tony doesn’t shudder anymore.

Steve walks to Tony, his boots clicking on the tiles. He steps over the dried come from the previous evening and inspects Tony, the way he would when reading documents. “They tell me you didn’t eat or drink anything today. I don’t need that stress weighing me down while I’m at work.”

Tony’s parched and his lips are cracked. From dehydration or his mouth being fucked open last night, he doesn’t know. 

He buries the feeling of thirst, forces it to subside. It isn't a difficult task once he focuses on the burns on his back or the scabs on his hips.

“You have to take care of yourself, Tony,” Steve scolds, a crease appearing on his forehead. He runs a finger down Tony’s cheeks and traces the outline of his lips. “I’m here now, don’t worry.” 

The smile is all wrong. It’s saccharine to the point of aggressive, as if this version of Steve wants to rewrite all the memories Tony has of them together.

Steve turns back to the side table and fills the glass to the brim. He returns to Tony and sets the glass right under his mouth, tilting Tony’s head upright with his other hand. “Come on, drink up.” 

Tony keeps his mouth shut. 

Ten days. That’s the average. Averages are shit. They're all rough. He could speed up the process only if Steve would beat him to death. He's done it so many times before but he's holding back now. 

His kidneys will cease function. There will be chemical changes to his body. The pain will transform into a dull ache, and perhaps, the next time he sees Steve, it will be by living with the memory of them on the 890th. 

Maybe he'll succumb to infection first. If the chains were a little shorter, he'd already have bashed his head to the wall.

Steve sighs heavily, and shoves his large hands under Tony’s jaw. Presses. Hard. Until Tony’s groaning and his mouth opens to a small circle. Steve tips the glass. “Swallow, come on, you can do it, you’re so good at that.”

Tony closes his eyes. He can’t look. 

He’s imagined those words, all the filthy things Steve tells him now, for years. But never like this. 

And so he swallows. 

Small sips, and he feels Steve’s eyes on him. Patient. He keeps Tony’s mouth open, fingers lightly drumming a rhythm on his jawline. 

He keeps at it, surprised when the glass is empty.

“Good, good Tony.”

His body, the stupid thing, still reacts to the praise, conditioned to seek Steve’s approval. 

He stirs, blinks his eyes open. 

Steve is smiling. “I knew coming home would calm me down. I think you’re the only one who can do that.”

What about Sharon, Tony doesn’t say. 

Why does it have to be like this, he doesn’t ask.

He knows why. 

Tony doesn’t know how long time passes. He used to keep count, back in the first few weeks. 

There are no clocks. There’s a bed he hasn’t been allowed to use since Steve chained him. 

There’s a bedpan in the corner of the cell. No showers. Steve still fucks him even when he hasn’t been washed in days. Sometimes he relents and one of the guards enter the cell and hose Tony down like the animal he’s become. 

He’s just a hole to be used. 

The come on his thighs are flaky and he doesn’t mind it anymore. 

It’s the cold he hates.

Steve makes him drink another full glass of water before he’s satisfied. He rubs his cock through his trousers. 

He wishes the water was alcohol instead. Fuck with his soberity. 

The damage to his body is no match for his heartache. 

I’ve always wanted you, always, Tony doesn’t say. 

He’s crying again. His fingers are numb as they hang limply and he can’t even stand anymore.

“You ought to take care of yourself while I’m at work, Tony.” Steve shakes his head, false concern evident in his features, and it’s truly, utterly fucked because Tony will pretend that the worry is real. “I’m already dealing with trying to rebuild this country. If you don’t take care of yourself, I’ll worry. I can’t be distracted right now.”

Steve prows in a circle, making pleased sounds as he runs a finger down Tony’s shoulder, then up his arms. 

He can’t see Steve anymore, but he feels his breath on his back. A finger outlines his vertebrae, and Tony counts each one. Twelve down the thoracic. Five down the lumbar, and then Steve's pawing at his sacrum, fingers fluttering until he reaches the center of Tony’s ass. "There you are," he says, spreading Tony's cheeks.

Tony sees Steve's shiny boots until he crouches to the ground, and then all that’s left are those stupid green trousers that should be blue.

There’s a puff of air on his hole, then a dry finger circles the rim. It presses in, slow.

Tony should be used to this violation by now. But he’s not.

Steve thinks it’s play, he’s said so, and now he tells Tony, “God, I hate how I want you.” 

Me too, I fucking hate you and I hate this, and how I still love you, fuck you, Steve, fuck you, he doesn’t bother uttering the words because Steve already knows. Has known. 

The words are spiky and true. It’s like how Tony chases at awful things because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

A tongue flicks against his hole, and Steve’s diving in, stubbornly trying to milk another orgasm out of him. Tony sags as Steve clutches the back of his thighs, pulling his legs wider and wider apart. 

Half of Tony's body falls forward, but the chains don't let him get far. Steve's dragging his ass back, silently, forcing Tony to fuck his tongue, soothing the tension growing in his stomach. 

It's still me, Tony, Steve had said. A better version, a stronger man. 

There's nothing here but savagery. A man who wears Steve' face, who has the same arch of his back, the exact copy of the mole on Steve's forearms. 

It's alright, Tony will lie to himself and pretend the world has been overtaken by Skrulls instead. He's still in the helicarrier now. Still Director, and Maria Hill will come any minute now, rip his ass for doing another wrong thing.

“Stay with me,” Steve commands, slapping the space between his ass and thighs. "Enjoy it. Can't you see the effort I'm putting in trying to make you feel good." Steve pets the place he marked. "Can't you see I'm trying, Tony?"

Tony is shaking. The arches of his feet ache from standing for the last few days. When sleep comes, it’s short and restless. The muscles under his armpits are pulled tighter and tighter the longer he stays suspended. 

But Steve doesn’t care.

He licks at Tony’s ass, and a very far away part of him thinks it feels good. He’s grateful, because this is a different type of punishment. Steve isn’t fucking into him without prep, or working his hole without lube. Isn’t making his fucktoy of a hole bleed anymore.

A finger breaches him, soaked with spit. Steve presses in and out, scissoring him open. He adds another, there’s a fumble behind him, and cold, lubed fingers pressing back in.

Tony chokes down the groan. It’s just neurons firing across his body, forcing him to respond. The pleasure. It's just brain activity. Sections of his cerebellum processing the movements, the stroking inside him, reducing the feelings of fear and dread, stopping the humiliation and deep-seated despair for a brief moment in time.

Steve’s pressing at his prostate, and it’s too much pressure. Tony’s biting his lips from moaning, from crying out, and suddenly, he becomes aware of the pain in his under his belly, too. 

The water, too much water. It’s going down his system, and he’s too full. Ballooning, flying higher and higher as Steve caresses his insides. 

Tony struggles against his chains, as he’s finger-fucked in deep, hard strokes.

“I have to —” Tony sobs the words out, hating how he can’t keep his mouth shut. His abdomen is starting to hurt, and his face heats all the way from his crown to his nape. 

He needs to piss. 

“You can come, Tony,” Steve whispers, kissing his back. “Let me hear you. Don’t deny me.”

Tony cries, shakes his head frantically, his soft cock bouncing against his thighs. “I can’t —”

“You can. Do it.” Steve eagerly thrusts deeper and deeper, only pulling out to add another finger inside. 

Tony is stretched open and the pressure swallows him. Tears hit his lips. “No, I have to pee. The water. You. Pee. I.”

Steve stops his ministrations and exhales a shaky breath. A minute passes before he’s groaning, and there’s the sound of his zipper being pulled further down. “Fuck, Tony, what you do to me. Fuck.”

There’s the squeenching sound of lube as he pulls his fingers out of Tony’s hole. 

Tony feels empty, and it’s short lived relief because Steve’s standing over him, pulling Tony to his chest and grabbing his cock. 

He kisses Tony’s back, licks the sweat off his neck. Behind him, Steve rocks his hard dick on Tony’s lower back, he’s circling his lips as if to announce how pleased he is with Tony’s despair. 

Tony's eyes shut, and he squirms when Steve presses on his abdomen. "I love seeing you lose it," he whispers to Tony's ear. "Come on, for me, let go, Tony." 

Steve continues the assault on his stomach, and Tony jerks, trying to even out his breaths and hold it in, but it's useless. Steve is rocking against his back, and he's arranging Tony's body, forcing Tony's legs shut. He grunts, slipping his cock between Tony's thighs, thrusting in and out at a slow pace. "Fuck. You feel how hard I am?"

Tony hisses as Steve drags his thick cock against his balls. He looks down at his broken feet, focusing on the missing nails. 

“Please, hurts,” Tony begs, sobbing because he’s so close. “Leave.”

“No, I’m seeing this through.” Steve’s voice is dark, excited. The sounds are very far away, like Tony’s hearing the world unfold underwater. 

Tony’s head is clouding, and he shouts when Steve begins pressing hard on his abdomen, timing it with his thrusts. 

“Let go, let go, for me, let go,” Steve chants, mouthing kisses at Tony’s cheek. “You can do it, I’m here.” The words sound so gentle, a vivid contrast to the brutality he’s often shown. 

A hand wraps around his nape, gripping the hairs there. Steve pulls, twisting his face back. 

He meets Steve's eyes. There's no choice. Steve won't leave. He'll be more forceful the longer Tony resists.

Tony blinks out the tears, his heart hurting more than that time in the cave. He hitches a breath, and sees Steve smile. 

He sinks into the feeling, letting go. 

It starts quiet. A few scant drops that turn to a loud hiss, and he's pissing all the water Steve forced him to drink. He’s frozen in shock, but Steve kisses him as he trembles in agony. 

He continues to fuck Tony's legs, no care about his cock getting wet with the piss dripping down Tony's thighs. "Come on,” Steve moans, loud, his thrust growing erratic. “Piss on my cock.” 

He falls back against Steve, and lets the final trickles of piss out, utterly out of control. It drips down his legs, painting Steve's cock, and it splashes on his bare feet. 

Slowly, it oozes down the cell's floor, making Tony's prison reek.

Steve grips his hips, steadying him. He lets Tony go with a slight warning and observes the mess on the floor. Steve’s eyes are wide, and he exhales heavily, still hard. He stands in front of Tony, just inches away, fisting his cock. Steve’s boots settle on the puddle, and he smiles, eyes focused on Tony as he twists the head of his cock. “You’re so gorgeous when you let go, Shellhead.”

Tony slurs, drained, ignoring Steve’s semen mixing with the piss on the floor. 

Steve is saying something now. Tony refuses to hear it.

He’s petting Tony’s hair. His hands, still damp with come, have a putrid smell.

Tony recedes into the little void Steve’s yet to gnawn. 

His heart erodes in increments. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you enjoy HydraCap loving/torturing Tony. Comments and kudos encourage me to write more miserable shit. More to come.
> 
> [Join me at the stevetony darkfest server!](https://discord.gg/X9xaRPT)  
> 


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